


Of Roses Unfurling

by Snowgrouse



Series: Of Roses Unfurling [1]
Category: Original Work, Thief of Bagdad (1940), كتاب ألف ليلة وليلة | Kitaab 'alf layla wa-layla | One Thousand and One Nights, كتب الف ليلة و ليلة | Kitaab 'alf layla wa-layla | One Thousand and One Nights & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Androgynous male character, Bisexual Male Character, Culture with casual male bisexuality, Cunnilingus, Dark Het, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fellatio, First Time, Heroine/Villain, Het, Historical, Historical Accuracy, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical Romance, Honeymoon, Light Bondage, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, Middle Ages, Muslim Character(s), Older Man/Younger Woman, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay, PWP, Period Attitudes Towards Sexuality and Gender, Persia, Prostate Milking, Queer Het, Romance, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Slow Burn, Smut, Stripping, Tenderness, The Golden Age of Islam, The Thousand And One Nights - Freeform, Vaginal Fingering, Wedding Night, delayed gratification, erotic romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 23:31:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She inhales the blue rose and forgets. Love she has yet to learn, and Jaffar is here to teach her.</p><p>***</p><p>"What I mean, my dear," and he leans down to kiss her forehead, then her lips, "is that I am going to teach you a new lesson each night, until you are ready." He kisses her left breast, then her right. "Every night, we'll learn and teach each other." He goes down on one knee and kisses her belly. "Until, on the final night..." his mouth hovers over her bare, shaven sex, and she presses her thighs tighter together. She's wet, and she knows that he knows, that he can smell her.</p><p>"Yes?" She cannot keep her voice from shaking.</p><p>He presses his thumb into the top of her slit, looking up into her eyes, smirking. "On the final night, you'll be so open for me, so ready for me I can just <b>slip inside of you.</b>" He presses his lips into her folds, flicking out his tongue, and her knees buckle from underneath her--</p><p>And then, just like that, he stops.</p><p>She screams in frustration, tries to grab his hair, but he's already on his feet, laughing, staggering back and licking his glistening lips. "I've already given you too much. Come to bed."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Roses Unfurling

**Author's Note:**

> Pure, unadulterated Technicolor fairytale romance. And hot, dirty sex. Lots of it. With a dash of Persian history mixed in. And then some more hot, dirty sex. _Because Conrad Veidt as Grand Vizier Jaffar ibn Yahya al-Barmaki._

***

She lifts the blue rose to her face and inhales. 

A thousand blue petals unfurl before her, behind her, above and below and forever. The petals fall, fall around her as she falls, falls forever. 

She forgets, and Jaffar's shadow covers her like wings.

***

On the first night, she awakens in the back of a torchlit chamber, dominated by an ancient relief of a goddess. Nude, bewinged, she is now being worshipped by Jaffar as if she were a woman of flesh and blood: he daubs sandalwood and cinnabar upon her breasts, offering her incense and fervent prayers. Like a suitor, he begs for her favours, for love, swearing eternal faithfulness.

"Ishtar, Queen of Heaven, hear the prayers of a lover lost, like your Tammuz was once in the darkness lost." His eyes glisten in the flickering torchlight, wide and full of yearning. "Take pity upon thy servant, Goddess Love, and pour forth from thy starry heavens thine soul into this maiden's living flesh, so that I might serve thee as a bridegroom should. Oh Queen, move thy spirit through this mortal maiden, the way you once moved through the women of Babylon."

She does not understand his words, although it may just be the haze that's still over her eyes, the metallic taste that lingers in her mouth as she staggers to her feet and approaches him.

He cares for her; this, she remembers. He is longing for a lost beloved; this, she understands. She, too, had a lost love, once, but she no longer remembers his face. But Jaffar, she remembers. Always Jaffar. Always there for her.

He starts when he realises she is awake. She steps up to the dais upon which the relief stands, so that she can better reach his face, so that she can better comfort him. 

When she touches his face, he blinks, tears escaping from his eyes, painting long streaks of kohl down his cheeks. When she cups his face and kisses the tears away, he trembles and the bowl of incense falls from his hands, shattering upon the floor.

She gathers him to her chest, holding him tight until her dress is stained with cinnabar, sandalwood and kohl.

***

On the second night, he lights a candle in front of her mirror, embraces her from behind and asks her to marry him.

In the reflection, he offers her sugared almonds, fragrant herbs, fresh flowers, and asks if it would not be fitting for a princess to become a queen, the _shahbanu_ of a mighty _shah_.

She turns around and takes the bowl of almonds from his hand. "Do not insult me, Barmakid. Sweetmeats are for parrots. I will not marry you just because you are a king." 

She sets the almonds on the table and slips her hand underneath his amber pendant, between the folds of his robes, resting her palm over his heart. His eyes are wide with fury, and lightning strikes nearby. 

"I will marry you because you are Jaffar." She takes his hand and rests it over her own heart. "And because it is Jaffar I love."

He falls to his knees and takes her hands. "Then, Jaffar is yours to command."

***

On the third night, they are led into the bridal chamber. The courtiers carry torches, sing and make merry, sprinkling powdered sugar over their heads to sweeten their union. There's no end to the servants' lewd jokes, meant to stir lust in the groom and to bring a blush to the bride's cheeks. Eventually, Jaffar has to physically push the gawking servants out of the door and lock it himself. "And don't come back until morning!"

He leans back against the door with a smile of relief. "Finally alone."

She sits on the low bed and kicks off her slippers, her heart beating so loudly she can barely hear him. She's heard all the tales, she's read through all the manuals, she's listened to all the hints and all the warnings of the married women of the harem. They've told her of how love is a science, of how one should experiment and practice its art much in the way one practices alchemy. But no amount of theory can ever prepare one for something like this.

When Jaffar approaches her, she casts her eyes down and her shoulders stiffen, despite her trying to put on a brave face.

Jaffar sits next to her, clasps one of her bare feet and rubs it gently. "They've told you to expect pain, haven't they?"

She nods, but doesn't look up. "I was told to expect blood."

He unclasps her veil and pulls it off her head. "They must think all men are beasts."

He takes her hands and gestures for her to undo his turban, and with shaking hands, she unwinds the yards and yards of white silk. It's the first time she's seen him without a head-covering, and she forgets her fear for a moment as she marvels at his black and silver hair, now falling down freely to frame his face, at how different he looks. She combs the knots out of his hair with her fingers, and he closes his eyes and presses into her touch, sighing. 

She cannot help but smile. "But my Jaffar _is_ a beast. Why, my pet cheetah does the same when I pet her."

He looks at her from underneath his brows, his eyes flashing wide, predatory. "Do not think me not dangerous, my love. It is my job to send treacherous men to the block, to have adulteresses stuffed in baskets and drowned in the Tigris."

A cold shiver runs through her and she tries to turn away, but he clasps her arms. "Let me finish. I am telling you this now: I am only as much of a beast as you want me to be, wife." And there's a dark promise in his eyes, an offer in the white flash of his smile. 

She is still shivering, but cannot tell if it's excitement or fear--maybe both, but her heartbeat is drowning everything out once more. All she can see are Jaffar's eyes, as blue and as shining as the midday sky. And then she is on her back upon the bed, his weight heavy upon her, his mouth on hers and she finds herself arching into his touch, moaning into his mouth. This is nothing like her youthful, innocent dreams of love; this is a wild beast devouring her mouth as if he couldn't get enough of her, as if he were drowning and her breath was the only thing keeping him alive.

And like a drowning man, he lifts his head, gasps for air. He unbuttons her jacket and kisses her chest, his touch now tempered with tenderness. "I am going to prove to you that the consummation of a marriage does not have to be painful. One cannot command a rose to unfurl faster, nor can one force passion to unfold in a day, if the proposal was made but yesterday." He caresses her face, kissing her softly. "I've waited for you for so long, my queen. Never let it be said I'm not a patient man and cannot wait for a few days more." 

"Days?" She's not sure about this. She shrugs herself out of her jacket and undershirt, baring her breasts to challenge him. 

He lies back on the bed and watches her, leering. Clearly breasts aren't enough to rouse his desire. Is she not beautiful? Has he not desired her for years? She takes off her sash and her shalwars as well, tossing each garment onto the floor with great force until she stands beside the bed next to him, fully naked. He's still fully clothed, bar slippers and turban. He raises himself on one shoulder, feasting his eyes on her body, caressing her slowly with his gaze. 

"Well?" She is this close to stomping her foot.

"You're very beautiful." He takes her hand and gets to his feet. He circles around her, running his long fingers up her arm, her neck, just brushing the side of her breast. There are several braziers in the room, yet her skin prickles with gooseflesh all over. She wonders what he sees. Is he a lord inspecting a pretty young slave girl to purchase, or a magician paying tribute to his goddess?

Finally, he pauses in front of her, towering over her even without his shoes. "What I mean, my dear," and he leans down to kiss her forehead, then her lips, "is that I am going to teach you a new lesson each night, until you are ready." He kisses her left breast, then her right. "Every night, we'll learn and teach each other." He goes down on one knee and kisses her belly. "Until, on the final night..." his mouth hovers over her bare, shaven sex, and she presses her thighs tighter together. She's wet, and she knows that he knows, that he can smell her.

"Yes?" She cannot keep her voice from shaking.

He presses his thumb into the top of her slit, looking up into her eyes, smirking. "On the final night, you'll be so open for me, so ready for me I can just _slip inside of you._ " He presses his lips into her folds, flicking out his tongue, and her knees buckle from underneath her--

And then, just like that, he stops. 

She screams in frustration, tries to grab his hair, but he's already on his feet, laughing, staggering back and licking his glistening lips. "I've already given you too much. Come to bed."

She digs her nails into her palms, seething. "I could murder you." 

He unbuckles his belt and climbs into bed, still in his shirt and shalwars. "You could try. I presume you will want me alive until the end of our honeymoon, however." He holds up the bedcovers and pats the bed.

"Aren't you getting undressed?" She embraces him, as seductively as she can manage, but knows it's futile.

He caresses her cheek, and despite his infuriating smirk, the tenderness in his voice helps soothe her restlessness. "Tomorrow." 

"Don't I get a good night's kiss at least?" 

He kisses her hard, so hard he bruises her lips, and clasps her so tight to himself she cannot breathe. She can tell he's struggling to restrain himself, can feel the bulge pressing against her thigh, the way his fingers twitch as he refrains from taking her there and then. They say that magicians have to undergo years of strict asceticism to concentrate their powers, to control themselves by sublimating their desires. Unless their life force is thus chained and channeled, they cannot work their magic, cannot even hope to control powerful beings such as djinn. This soothes her pride somewhat, as it elevates her among djinn. It also makes her wonder just how many years of celibacy are required to make a horse fly or to summon up a storm. The ordinary street fakir cannot perform such miracles. 

But that's enough thoughts for one day, especially after the exhaustion of the wedding ceremony. Reluctantly, she pulls her lips off his and curls up to sleep in the circle of his arms. 

*** 

On the fourth night, they share a cup of wine. She's never drunk any, for it is forbidden, although she's seen and heard courtiers defying the law and losing control of themselves. She could never have imagined Jaffar to be a wine drinker, because she cannot imagine someone as composed as him becoming a staggering fool, retching and passing out in an alleyway. Perhaps it's one more magical exercise in self-control, she thinks. Others drink to defy the laws set by God; he drinks to defy the laws of Nature, to show he can indulge without losing his wits. 

He pours the thick red wine into a silver cup through thin muslin, sifting out the dregs, filling half the cup with water. When he offers the cup to her lips, she hesitates. Red droplets cling to the breasts of the dancing girls engraved on the inside of the cup, their laughing faces urging her to drink. Finally, encouraged by his nod, she sips, and makes a face at the bitterness. 

"This is the drink poets sing songs about? It's disgusting."

He laughs. "You'll get used to it. Now, custom dictates we should share the cup. Offer it to me."

She holds out the cup to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers as he drinks deep. He caresses her wrist as he drinks, thirsty for more than just the wine, and she can't not think of her cheetah lapping at her bowlful of blood after a successful hunt. When he lifts his mouth from the cup and smiles, his lips and teeth are stained red.

"Drink it up, my love. You'll be grateful you did."

She takes the cup from him and empties it, forces the bitter liquid down her throat, even if it makes her gag. The wine burns in her stomach, but it also warms her and eases the tension in her limbs.

He takes the cup from her and steadies her, rubbing her back with his hand to relieve the nausea. "Can you stand up?"

"Why?"

He presses a soft kiss to her lips. "I want you to undress me."

A flash of heat runs through her, rushing from her cheeks to her breasts and pooling at her groin. "Yes," she laughs, emboldened by the wine. She staggers a little as she follows him out of bed, balanced by his hand. Even if she'd be senseless from the drink, she would still say yes--she wouldn't want to miss her first chance to see a man naked. Like all virgins, she's burning with curiosity. 

Of course, their height difference presents something of a challenge. He has to crouch comically, like a hunchback, for her to even undo his turban. Neither of them can contain laughter as they struggle with the fabric, Jaffar chuckling against her chest as she unravels the last of the silk. 

She tosses the cloth aside. "There. All done." 

He lifts his hands and glances at his belt. "You're going to have to disarm me."

"Will I have defeated you, now?" she asks, coquettish as she removes his dagger and undoes his jewelled belt, letting both clatter onto the floor.

He pulls her into his arms. "I'm not lying down at your feet yet."

"Perhaps you should be." She smiles as she slides his robe off his shoulders, then frowns. "How many layers are there?" 

Jaffar bursts into laughter. "You talk as if _you_ were the bridegroom; so impatient. I must make you drink more often." He pours them another cup of wine, this time offering most of it to her. She downs it swiftly, returning to her task. He crouches for her again as she removes his undershirt; it has been a hot day and he smells faintly of sweat, and she can feel the heat of his body through the thin silk. 

It is not what makes her gasp, however. 

He tries to turn around, but she has already seen the old, faded scars crisscrossing his back, dark against his brown skin. She runs her hand across them, and he turns his face away. Her heart skips a beat as she realises this may have been the reason he had brought the wine, the reason he had kept himself clothed last night.

"I am sorry, Jaffar." She holds him, caresses his back with her hands. It is obvious the pain hasn't faded, even if the scars have.

He still refuses to look into her eyes. "Don't pity me."

"Who did this to you?"

"I have served many kings. Some of them more bad-tempered than others." He turns to face her, his voice low with anger. "But now I am my own king, and serve no man."

She takes a step back. "I'm sorry. I meant well." 

He sighs and kisses her hair, then rests his forehead against hers. "I know. Forgive me." The corners of his mouth twitch in a smile. "Note that I said I serve no man. I did not say anything about a woman." He cannot disguise the unsteadiness of his hands as he takes hers, as he guides them to the drawstring of his shalwars. "You _have_ disarmed me, have you not?" he whispers.

She is not frightened of what she will find, because right now she would not care even if he were a serpent from the waist down. What frightens her is the power he's offering her, such power over a man who commands the vast armies of an empire, armies of men and djinn. She is not sure if she wants this power, should she accidentally abuse it. She lifts her hands to the clasp of her own vest.

"What if my desire was to serve you instead?" she asks and pulls her shift over her head, so that they are both standing shirtless, equally half-naked.

He runs his hands over the tops of her breasts and chuckles in delight. "Would you have me command you? Is that what you would wish, my lady?"

The dark promise in his voice sends a flash of heat through her and she leans into his touch, her nipples hard against his palms. "Yes."

"Very well, then. I command you to undress us both."

It only takes a few tugs for her to undo both their drawers, until they stand naked in the room, facing each other. She takes a step back to better see him. He's twenty-five years her senior, yet still full of strength, sinewed and slim like a dancer. And just like a dancing-boy's, his chest is smooth. The only hair on his body covers his legs and forearms, clipped short at his groin. She finds herself somewhat puzzled, even a little annoyed that he is not erect yet. She has heard tales of how even eunuchs, if castrated after puberty, will grow hard at the sight of a naked woman.

He glances down at himself, then back at her. "Do I meet madam's approval?" 

She returns the glance. "Do I not meet yours? You seemed more... appreciative last night."

"Oh, no, no, no, my dear. Do not mistake my self-restraint for apathy." He closes the distance between them and kisses her hungrily, crushing her to his chest, skin against skin, flesh against flesh. Between kisses, his words tumble rapidly out of his mouth. "I want you more than I've wanted any other woman, and that is the truth. Tonight, I want to see all of you. I want to see you touch yourself, so that I will know how to touch you in turn."

She moans into his mouth at the thought. "Is that an order?" 

When he withdraws, his eyes are feverish, wild, his cock stirring against his thigh, his chest heaving as he makes a point of not touching her. It's as if he's afraid of her, of what he would do to her, whether he would burn up in her like the moth that fell in love with the flame. 

"Yes, my dear. That is an order. Now get on the bed."

The sheets feel cold against her burning skin as she lies down, suddenly shy even if she is aching with arousal, even if she's wet before her hips touch the bed. He crawls over her and _inhales_ her, his stomach undulating as he draws in her scent with short breaths, as he stares at her with open greed.

"Show me."

She arches her back, yearning to touch him, but he pulls away. She sinks her fingers into his hair and steals a kiss. 

"Jaffar, there is something I have not told you." 

"What is it?"

"I used to dream of you. Years ago, when I was but a girl. Of how you would make love to me."

 _"Oh."_ His belly quivers again, his cock brushes her thigh and it's as if the contact gives him an electric shock. He curls back, kneels between her legs and digs his nails into his thighs, breathing heavily. "Tell me."

She closes her eyes and turns her head upon the pillow, trying to resume the position she had lain in while sleeping, to better recall the dream. "I did not know who you were. The only men I'd seen up until then were my father and the palace guards. All I could see was the mirror in my room, and a black-robed figure standing there. It was you, was it not? Watching over me. You wore the turban ornament you always wear."

He does not reply, but she knows. It all makes sense now, now that she knows about his crystals and his mirrors, of his ways of seeing beyond great distances. 

"I would wake up to find you gone. All I could remember was your image, standing still, and your eyes." She opens her eyes, gazing up at him, speaking as if in a trance. "I would marvel at the blueness of them, how they would look straight through me and pin me to the bed, and how I so wished that this man would do more. That he would touch me. If he was a prince come to rescue me, just like the princes in the old stories..." she runs her fingers across her lips. "Then why would he refuse me his kiss?" 

"It's because your father would have had me whipped."

Her eyes fly open wide at the implication. "...he didn't--"

Jaffar sighs and glances down, then back at her. "It is no matter. Continue."

She stares at him for a while, stunned, but he is right: she can ask him later, and she realises she does not want to ruin the moment, to ruin his pleasure, hers. Thus, she closes her eyes again, stroking her mouth. "I had many fantasies of my first kiss. Sometimes it would be soft, chaste. Lips brushing against lips, then parting with a sweet farewell. On other days, I wished it would be wild. Merciless." She opens her eyes a fraction, now lazy with remembered lust, and pinches her lip with her nails. "I wished you would crawl into my bed, lay your mouth on mine and _bite_." 

"I wanted to. Oh, how I wanted to." He leans over her, his eyes thin slits; he brushes his lips across her stomach. "I remember the colour of your lips, how you used to love pomegranates then, and how they would stain your mouth. I longed to taste your lips, make them even redder, mark them with my teeth." His laughter is tinged with bitterness. "How foolish of a man to be jealous of a fruit."

She strokes his hair. "Not foolish." She lifts her hands to cup her breasts, sighing back into the pillows again. "I, too, remember the pomegranates. Drops of their juice would fall upon my chest and I fancied they were your kisses. You would undo my shift and hold my breasts, squeeze them, just like this, as you kissed me." She pinches each nipple with thumb and forefinger, gasping at the sweet pain. "I would dream of your long fingers, tugging at me like this until it hurt, until I would plead for you to lie with me, until my legs would spread underneath you." She's panting, writhing, her legs so wide open she's dripping between her buttocks, dripping onto the sheets, the air heavy with her sweet scent. 

He pulls back with a loud groan and squeezes his cock. To her great astonishment, he is dripping just as much as she is. This is something she was never told about when the old wives prepared her for the life of a married woman. Fascinated, she watches as clear--not white, but clear--fluid drips from the slit of his cock over his knuckles, and he rubs it into his skin, making his entire cock glisten. He moans as he strokes himself, his entire body heaving with his shallowed breathing. 

"Continue," he rasps. "Please, continue."

She slides one hand between her legs and rubs at herself, so swollen she barely recognises such a familiar part of herself. She moans at her own touch, spreading wetness all across her folds, over her swollen mound, making herself glisten the way he does. "I used to think that the day I learned your name, I would call it out and you would step out of the mirror. I would have broken the spell. That day, you would climb into my bed and kiss me all over. But especially here." She draws her hand to the top of her slit, to the swollen bud of her clitoris and squeezes it between her fingers. "I remember wanting your mouth so much I would cry in frustration." Now, tears fill her eyes at the memory and she blinks them away as she strokes herself, as her thighs squeeze around Jaffar's sinewier, hairier ones; she pants, her breath hitching in her throat. "I would think of the rasp of your moustache, think of your eyes looking up at me from between my legs, and how you would make me beg to be taken." She rubs herself faster. "But I did not know your name. And now, I do." She moans it, delighting in it. "Jaffar. _Jaffar._ "

"I'm here." And there he kneels, staring at her just as he had done in her mirror, now finally made flesh, and she cannot bear it any longer. She rolls onto her stomach and rides both her hands, rides the Jaffar of her fantasy, screaming his name into the pillows, coming and coming, her entire body convulsing and shaking. 

Without warning, he flips her around and takes her wet fingers into his mouth. Dazed, shivering in aftershocks, she gasps as he _bites_ them, moaning around them as he strokes his cock faster and faster, as his hips spasm and he comes undone. He sobs into her hand, unable to stop coming, ribbon after ribbon of white splashing on her thighs. Groaning, he falls onto her, lapping it all up, lapping her clean, murmuring apologies against her skin.

"Don't apologise for the mess." She slips lower down so that she lies underneath him, so that she can push back strands of sweaty hair from his face, so that she can kiss the taste from his lips. "It was quite a beautiful mess," she laughs into his mouth. 

He laces his fingers with hers and rests on top of her, his weight soothing her, slowing down her heartbeat. His eyes are sparkling, full of wonder and awe. "Had I known you were dreaming of me, I would've defied your father earlier. I would've ridden straight into the palace and carried you off to Baghdad."

"For that, he would've beheaded you."

"Oh, yes," he grins, "but I wouldn't have regretted a single second."

"Promise me something, Jaffar."

"I am listening."

"Tomorrow, you must, in turn, tell me what you have been dreaming of." She slides her hand down his side, letting it rest on his hip. "How you want to be touched. And let me touch you." 

"Your wish is my command." He raises an eyebrow. "Although I am not sure if I've just created a monster."

"Tomorrow will tell." She smiles and kisses him. "And please, _do_ make a mess."

***

On the fifth night, he tells her to arrive with her nails filed short, buffed smooth, and to use the reddest lip colour she can find. As she paints her lips with pomegranate paste, she wonders what these two requests have in common. 

He enters the bedchamber, turbanless and only wrapped in a single, thick silk robe. His hair is wet from the baths and she can smell the expensive oils on him from across the room. She gets up from her seat to receive him, only clad in a thin nightdress herself. He pulls her into his arms, sighing happily. 

"Not too many layers between us this time, praise be to God." 

"You're soaking me."

"Best to get undressed, then." He pushes her curls from her ear and whispers into it. "I promised you a mess." He hisses the last word, pressing his hips against her, letting her feel his hardness against her belly. She shivers with delight and leans into him, welcoming him. Gone is the apologetic, shaking man, and she wonders what had brought about this transformation. Was it her confession from last night that has made him so bold, so sure of himself?

"What were you doing at the baths? Besides bathing?" 

He sits on the low bed, pulling a small vial from his pocket and setting it on the floor. "Making myself ready." He removes his robe and lies down, stretching luxuriously, his oiled skin gleaming in the lamplight, his erection resting firm against his hip. He's making himself into a spectacle, something to be desired, flaunting himself now that he knows she has desired him for years. 

"As I was bathing, I was thinking of my _shahbanu_ and what I would tell her tonight." He offers his hand. "Will you lie with me and listen?" 

She almost refuses, because it's all too fast and too easy. A little devil on her shoulder tells her she should keep him on a slow simmer, let him taste his own medicine. So she sits next to him on the bed, but decides to keep her clothes on. He glances at her quizzically, stroking her arm through the nightdress.

"You weren't this shy last night," he tuts. "I seem to remember having had a rather more lascivious princess in my bed."

She runs a finger along his collarbone and looks up at him through her lashes, grinning. "Tell a good enough story, and she will reappear."

He lifts himself on one shoulder, marvelling at her. "My, my. And you, my cruel king, would have Jaffar be your Scheherazade?"

She nods slowly. "My story."

"Very well, then. If you must. The first time your father caught me and had me whipped, I was feverish from my wounds. He had me thrown into his dungeon, chained to the floor, surrounded by rats. For days, I was delirious. Enjoying it so far?"

" _My father_ did this to you?" She sits up, appalled. Whipping was bad enough, but throwing an ill man into a filthy dungeon would mean a slow, hideous death. She bunches her hands into fists, seething with rage. "If he were still alive, I would--"

He closes his hand around hers. "But he isn't. Besides, you saved me."

"How?"

"You came to me in a dream. And it became the happiest day of my life." He smiles, his gaze turned inwards at the memory.

"Tell me."

"I heard the door creaking, and saw you there. I thought you must've bribed the guards and slipped there unbeknownst to your father." He closes his eyes, reciting the details from memory. "You were wearing blue, and offered me a cup of cold water. The water had herbs in it to bring down fever; I can still taste the mint on my tongue." He opens his eyes again. "And then you made love to me."

She lies down beside him and kisses his palm. "I would have."

"You said nothing. You just cut off my dirty, ragged clothes and sat in my lap. You had been eating pomegranates again." He nuzzles her face, inhaling that same scent from her lips, his eyes glowing with delight. "As you had desired my mouth, I had desired yours. That night, you kissed me for hours, each and every part of my body, drawing the fever from me with each kiss." He takes her hand and rests it on his waist and she lets it linger, caressing his side, his hip, his thigh. "And at last, you took me with your mouth. Your pomegranate lips closed around me, soft and wet and gentle, and the dungeon walls dissolved around me and I saw no more. The next morning, I woke up in my own bed, my fever gone."

She cannot hold back tears and pulls him into her arms, holding him tight. "My Jaffar. I never knew."

He kisses the tears from her face. "Now you do."

She takes his hands and kisses both of them. She knows what to do, now. "I want to try something. Lie down on your back."

He raises his eyebrow but he does as he is told, curious. She takes the sash from his discarded robe and ties his wrists above his head with it with a neat bow. His eyes widen, but he does not struggle. Then, he realises. 

"Oh. _Oh._ "

"Last night, I asked you to tell me how you liked to be touched. I think you've just given me my answer." 

She strips and takes the vial from the floor. With a smile, she lifts the bottle high and pours. He jerks and yelps as the cold oil hits his chest, his belly, swears out loud as it drips over his still-hard cock.

"Oh, merciful Lord!"

She massages the oil into his skin, then lies flat over him, smearing herself as well, laughing as she does. "This mess is to make up for the pain my father caused you." 

He slips his bound hands around her neck and growls, rubbing himself against her. "Strangely enough, it's not making me feel any less feverish." He tries to kiss her, but she puts a finger to his lips. 

"I only have enough lip paint for one kiss. Where you shall receive it is up to you. Choose wisely."

"Oh, God." He throws his head and his arms back on the pillows and breathes out a heavy sigh. When he looks up again, his eyes search her, as if he is still unsure of whether he's dreaming or awake. "My queen, I think you know."

She shakes her head, slides down his body and kneels between his legs, the way he had knelt between hers the previous night. She massages his hips, her fingertips skimming his pudendum, and yet she waits. "Say it."

"Please." He casts his lashes down, as if waiting for some heavenly punishment for daring to ask. "Take me with your mouth."

She spreads his thighs and gently, gently takes his cock and puts it to her lips. His eyes fly open wide as she stretches her lips to accommodate the head, which is more difficult than she imagined it would be. But oh, he tastes delicious, and the low, deep groan he lets out is encouragement enough. She keeps kissing the head, tasting it with little licks, making her hand into a loose fist and sliding it up and down his shaft. All the while, she looks up at him, observing his expressions, every little twitch of his fingers, watching her teeth at each little wince. 

"How does that feel?"

His voice is trembling, and he captures her shoulders between his thighs. "Like a dream. Please, don't stop."

She sips some of the oil to make her mouth wetter, slicker, taking in what she can, deeper now. The oil finally makes her lip paint run, leaving deep red smears all over his shaft and he _sobs,_ his hips arching up, his cock spurting a little on her tongue, the salt mingling with the sweetness of the oil. She lifts her head to catch her breath, and his hips follow her mouth, his cock thrusting in vain in the slick circle of her fingers. 

"Please," he prays. "You are torturing me." 

"Am I?" She dares slide one of her other hand's fingers between his buttocks, pressing there. He stops breathing, clenches, and a little more fluid beads at the tip of his cock. She's heard of a secret spot inside every man, the manipulation of which can make even a eunuch come. Evidently, he knows of it too, from the way his eyes fix on her as he realises what she is about to do. "First, you would have me be your Scheherazade," he pants, "and now you would take me like a slave boy?"

She nuzzles his cock as she presses against him with her fingers, massaging, not entering yet. "If my master wills it."

He clutches at the pillows with his bound hands, staring into her eyes, considering her. He takes a deep breath, wets his lips and nods. "Your _slave_ wishes it."

Slowly, slowly she eases two fingers inside of him, lowering her mouth onto his cock at the same time. He is soft inside, and to her surprise, she can smell fragrant bath oils as she slides her fingers in and out. _He had prepared himself for this._ He must've expected to use only his own fingers, otherwise he wouldn't have hesitated so much just now. Despite his requests, he must've expected her to refuse him her mouth and her fingers, expected to lie down and masturbate just like he had made her do the previous night, forever left alone with his fantasies. Fantasies he's lived with for so long he still has difficulty believing they can come true. And it's breaking her heart.

He grows quiet, stops thrusting, only lies down and breathes deep, lulled into a trance by her fingers and her mouth. Gently, she curls her fingers inside his soft wet heat, and the noise he makes is so sad, so small and so lost. She does it again, and this time he arches his back, and she can see bright streaks of tears glistening upon his temples. 

"Jaffar." She whispers, not wanting to break his trance by speaking too loudly. "I love you."

"That is why I am weeping," he smiles through his tears. 

She smiles back at him and continues to make love to him with her mouth, rocking her fingers inside him in a gentle rhythm. Once more, he sobs, this time in delight, and suddenly she's choking as he comes into her mouth, filling it, spilling over. Bravely, she manages to keep his cock inside her mouth as his come drips down her lips, and never stops moving her fingers, milking him until he stops shaking, until he's spent his last. 

She wipes her mouth and her hands on the edge of a sheet and sits down next to him. His eyes are still closed, his lips moving silently as if in prayer as she unties the knot around his wrists. He only turns to look at her when she takes his hands and rubs circulation back into them, and even then his eyes are unfocused, struggling to return to the present from somewhere far away. 

She plants a soft kiss on each of his wrists. "Hello."

He but stares at her, stares. "You cannot, absolutely _cannot_ be real."

"I assure you, I am flesh and blood, just like you are. And we have most definitely made a mess." She picks up his robe and uses it to clean him up, then tosses it into a corner. 

He frowns. "I _liked_ that robe."

She lies beside him and runs her hand over his stomach. "More than you liked what we just did?"

He sighs, defeated. "No." He kisses her hand. "What's the world coming to when the bride is the one taking the bridegroom?"

"I don't know, but I'm looking forward to finding out." She takes his mouth with hers.

***

On the sixth night, she arrives to find him sleeping. He'd had to leave early that morning to meet and greet foreign diplomats and traders, to ride from one end of Basra to another, entertain them with hunts and feasts. It's no wonder he's exhausted. He sprawls on the bed in his nightshirt, his hair in a mess, smudged kohl forming dark rings around his eyes. She picks up one of her hairbrushes and tiptoes to the bed. Gently, she lifts his head into her lap and brushes his hair to untangle it, smooths out the kohl with her thumbs. He mumbles, creaking his eyelids open a little, smiles and then falls back to sleep. She lies down and follows him to sleep, holding him in her arms. 

The moon is still high in the sky when he awakens her. She stirs from sleep to see him lying naked before her, his head pillowed on her thighs. The moonlight paints him with dark blues, with stark whites over the breadth of his shoulders, the dip of his back and the curve of his buttocks. He greets her with a smile, playing with the hem of her nightshirt, pushing it higher up her thigh. "Good morning."

She yawns and stretches. "It cannot be more than three o'clock."

"You can go back to sleep if you like." He lifts her hand to kiss her fingertips.

"Said the cheetah to the gazelle." 

With a wicked grin, he takes two of her fingers into his mouth and _bites_ , sending a jolt through her body. He follows the bite with a playful purr. "Don't think I'm not going to reward you for your generosity last night." His eyes seem to glow as the moonlight strikes his pale irises, as he moves to cover her with his body. He pulls off her nightshirt and sighs in contentment as her breasts are revealed. He cups them gently as he leans down to kiss her, his large hands covering them perfectly. She pushes up into his touch, crossing her arms around his neck so he can't pull away. She's waited for this for so long, to have him touch her like this. He squeezes her breasts, and oh, it feels so wonderful she whimpers into his mouth.

He pauses, turning his touch into a soft caress. "I don't want to hurt you." 

She smiles and pulls him into another kiss. "My love, you are not hurting me _nearly_ enough." 

It's his turn to moan into her mouth. This time, he doesn't hold back his greed and squeezes her breasts hard, massaging them, pinching her nipples between his fingers, harder still as her gasps turn into cries. He pushes one of his thighs between hers and she locks her legs around it, grinding into it as hard as she can until her hips are lifted off the bed. He hurries to catch her hips with his hands and attacks her breasts with his mouth, the purring rumble of his laugh radiating into her chest as he laps and laves and bites. 

She struggles to rub herself against him again, but he holds her hips up, denying her the pleasure of friction. "Not yet." Pulling back to kneel on the bed, he lifts her legs around his waist so that her hips rest over his thighs, over his erection. " _I'm_ going to be the one giving you that particular pleasure tonight, my sweet," he grins, "and I'll give it when it suits me." He marvels at the wet streak she has made on his belly. "The art of patience only heightens the eventual pleasure, my dear." 

She claws at his arms, squirming. The heat inside her is too much, and she needs the friction. She can't move out of the position, so she defies him and slips one hand between her legs and rubs, shuddering in his lap. "I don't believe you."

He takes her wrists and pins them to the bed, roughly, leaning over her. "It is thanks to my patience that you are here. Can you imagine how I felt at the slave market? When the traders tied you to that post and mocked you, wanted to strip you, a royal princess, in front of hundreds?" 

She remembers the grabbing hands, the hungry stares, and hears Jaffar's voice, furiously calling out bids, offering thousands of dinars for her. And then tens of thousands, then hundreds of thousands, more than what her father would spend on his toys in a year. 

He narrows his eyes, stroking her cheek with his knuckles. "I _bought_ you. And I could've had you. There and then, in front of all those people. I could've let them lift your skirts. And yet, I didn't. I ordered them to let you go." He slides his hands down to her hips again, his mouth inches from hers. "I went to my tent and cut my palm with my knife, when I would've rather done this." Tenderly, he cups her mound with his hand. 

"Oh--" 

"Yes." He nods. "You were _mine._ " He works his hand up and down, rocking his hips and his erection against the small of her back. He speaks softly, rapidly. "I could've done this in the auction hall, tested your virginity like they urged me to. I could've pushed my fingers inside you, could've taken you with my hand there and then, made you scream against my chest in shame and dishonour." He dips his thumb into her slit and rubs it in slow circles. "Yet, I didn't. Hoping against hope, I kept waiting for this day. So, you see, I'm not going to let either of us rush it, now that the day has finally come." 

She feels the onrush of orgasm, the first ripples of it. "Then you'd better--stop. For the love of God, stop. I'm--" 

Quickly, he lowers her hips, leaving her heaving and tossing on the bed in frustration, laughing as he sucks her taste off his thumb. Even the sound of his laughter makes her spasm again, the heat inside her hips excruciatingly painful from all the blood that's rushed there, trapped there, unreleased by orgasm. She squeezes her eyes shut, letting out a very loud and very unladylike groan, and some equally unladylike curses. Only when his weight leaves the bed does she open her eyes.

He kneels beside the bed and lights a lamp, two. "All the better to see you by," he explains as he climbs back in. Even in her feverish haze of frustrated arousal, she has to again marvel at his self-control as his cock taps against his belly with his movements, flushed and hard: he has not touched it once. And he doesn't touch it now as he lies flat on the bed between her legs, her thighs over his arms, his hands cupping her hips. He's suddenly quiet, only staring at her vulva, worshipful as when he was daubing sindoor and sandalwood over the statue of Ishtar. She wonders if this was how her priestesses had felt when they had enacted the rites of the _hieros gamos_ ; if this was how the pagan priests of old had paid tribute to the goddess of Love. 

She caresses his hair to wake him from his reverie. "I dreamt of your mouth before I even knew your name. Please, Jaffar. Do not make me wait for a moment longer."

He presses his lips to her mound, reverently, sighing with joy. The kiss is followed by another, another, the touches she'd dreamt of: the rasp of his moustache, the faint stubble of his chin pressing into her folds, the little scratches sending a thousand sparks of delight through her hips, up her spine, making her head fall back in joy. Her inner muscles clench helplessly as he parts her with his lips, licks her from perineum to clitoris, moaning as he laps up her arousal, as if not wanting to lose a single drop. She doesn't know where to put her hands to stop them from shaking, so she sinks them into his hair again, roughly, causing him to moan even louder. He glares up at her, panting, his pupils wide with arousal and pain, then grinds his mouth against her even harder, his own buttocks undulating as he writhes against the bed. 

She grinds back, grabbing handfuls of his hair, looping her fingers around the strands, pulling again, making him shout into her. He gasps for breath, his wet mouth resting against her hip, looking up at her with burning eyes full of awe. "What are you doing to me?" he asks as he reaches down to stroke his cock. But he doesn't wait for an answer, just takes a deep breath and parts her folds with his lips again, closes his mouth around her clitoris and _sucks._ She loses her grip on his hair, her hands falling onto the bed, her legs spasming over his shoulders as the ripples come again, unstoppable this time, washing over her. She shouts, the vibrations of her own voice sending yet more ripples through her, shouts again, clasping the back of his neck, claiming his mouth until the last waves ebb away. 

He collapses next to her, groaning, breathless. "You are a demoness." 

"Says the magician. Be careful what you summon." She leans in to kiss him and closes her hand around his cock, stroking it softly.

"Ah. Let me at least catch my breath, my demoness."

"Just lie down, then, old husband." She smiles fondly. 

He raises an eyebrow and slips a hand between her legs. "I have had people beheaded for insults less wounding." He glances down. "Sit down on my hand. If you want to keep your head, that is."

"Like this?" She straddles his palm, continuing to stroke his cock all the while. 

"Yes. Ride my hand, the way you rode yours when you told me of your dream." She can feel his cock swelling in her hand further as he says the words, further still as she tilts her hips and begins a slow ride, rocking herself slickly against the heel of his hand. "That's it, my impudent child," he teases, his eyes half-closed as she pleasures him with her palm in turn. He looks so happy, so intoxicated that she has to lean down to kiss him, let her perfumed hair fall over his face and chest like a veil, sheltering him with her love. 

They stay that way a long while, barely moving, only enough to maintain a low simmer of heat. His eyes rove over her body, taking her in, as if he still cannot believe she's real, his and not merely a dream to be committed to memory. He must've had many lovers before, yet the way he reaches out to touch the curve of her breast, the dip of her belly, to hold her waist--it's as if he were the virgin. She squeezes him with her hand, a little tighter, then spreads her fingers out over the length of his cock, stroking it adoringly. 

"How long are you going to keep me a virgin, husband?" 

She means it as a tease, but as soon as she says it, the frustration of their long courtship swells to the surface. Why, she should straddle him now and have him, and she would, if she did not know he had some sort of plan. She doesn't want to ruin it for him, but grinds herself down on his hand, demanding an answer.

He tuts. "But, my dear, I mean to open you slowly." He presses against her entrance with his fingers, making her gasp. "I promised not to hurt you." Gently, very gently, he dips one fingertip inside, tilting his head thoughtfully. "Unless, of course, pain is what you desire." He rocks his cock into her hand a little faster now, his smile widening with true wolfishness. "Oh yes, I am familiar with the preference. Don't think I haven't thought of it. How I could throw you down and have you, ignore your pain, ignore your cries and not stop until I've had my fill of this _sweet little cunny_." He hisses in pleasure and wets his lips, his body coiled taut, ready to strike. "Which would my lady prefer?"

She moans and presses down on his fingers, closing her eyes, and for a moment she is tempted. Images of him growling on top of her, hurting her, letting go of restraint and using her for his own pleasure flicker through her mind, and she flushes in shame and arousal at her own perversion. It would not be wise, she tells herself. No. The ravishments so beloved of bawdy poets can wait; first, she needs experience. She's being offered a care and tenderness most brides aren't, and she can only have it once in her lifetime. 

But she wants it now. With unsteady limbs, she lifts herself off him and lies down beside him, spreading her legs.

"Open me." 

Jaffar gazes at her hungrily, breathing heavily at the very sight of her, at her words. He closes his eyes and shudders, his wet fingers trembling and slipping on his cock. 

"Stop. Come--come here instead. Turn around." 

She knows what to do. Gently, oh so gently she turns to face his legs, leans down and slides her mouth over his cock. He howls, his hips jerking up and he hits the back of her throat, murmuring apologies. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, you're so beautiful--" he murmurs and turns her around so that he can pleasure her with his mouth in turn, her legs on either side of his head. It feels wonderful, but she knows he must be aching even more than she is, and she is determined to give him release. She cups his balls in her hand, so firm and tight they must be hurting, and massages them, moving her head in a gentle rhythm, up and down on his shaft. She can take him deeper in this position, trying to relax her throat as much as she can. To her great frustration, she fails at the task, but it's her gagging that makes his balls jump in her palm and makes him come in her mouth, shouting and grinding his face into her, sucking and lapping at her in time with every thrust of his hips. 

He lies flat underneath her, panting, his stomach trembling as his spasms subside. His voice is hoarse, uneven. "Thank you." He strokes her buttocks, pressing soft kisses to the insides of her thighs. "Although now you've put me in even deeper debt." He kisses his way up her thighs and laps at her again, spreading her, his breath hot against her wetness. 

Reflexively, she leans back onto his tongue, sighing against his hip, smearing it with lip paint and sperm. "Open me," she whispers once more.

"I will." Carefully, he starts rocking one finger inside, moving it slowly back and forth. "Does that hurt?"

"No." It feels strange at first, his fingers so different from hers. She can only get two of hers in before the stretch becomes too painful, but one of his feels like two of hers: much thicker, longer, his skin rougher. It's the friction that makes her clench around it, first in alarm, then with growing enjoyment as he starts moving his hand in longer strokes. Each push forward and each pull back makes a shiver of delight lash through her, and she knows there's more, there must be more. Oh, God, she has to have more. She rocks back into his touch, arching her back like a cat in heat. "Please."

He moves his hand a little faster, the other fingers of his hand slipping over her slit, squeezing around her clitoris each time he presses in deep. But it's not deep enough; it's as if he's bringing new nerve endings into existence with every stroke and then cruelly withdraws, leaving behind an unbearable ache. She tries to ride his hand, but each time she pushes down, he withdraws again and tuts. 

"Patience, remember? You should see yourself; so eager. So ready to be deflowered. So hot, so pink." He draws in a shaking breath through his teeth. "And _dripping_ on my wrist. Oh, you are _ready_." 

"Please," she cries out louder than she means to, panting against his thigh. And that's when he changes the angle of his hand and _curls_ his finger inside her. Her eyes fly open wide and she freezes, not able to process the sensation that just ran through her. It wasn't unpleasant, but like a flash--like a lightning bolt--and when he does it again, again, tapping, sending shock after shock of pleasure through her, her knees buckle and she _screams._ She bites into his thigh at the force of her release, clenching around his finger again and again, unable to stop spasming. 

He laughs out loud in delight, pulls out and licks her, dipping his tongue into where his finger had been. His thumb rubbing softly on her clitoris, he sends a cascade of aftershocks through her body, drinking them in until she's spent, shaking. To keep her from collapsing, he has to hold her hips up, hugging them, biting into her buttock, still chuckling. 

"And that's just _one_ finger."

She can't even form words; she lets out an incoherent noise and rolls off him. She's still in a haze as he spreads her legs again and leans over her to kiss her. Only then does she realise how wet his face is, his mouth and stubble glistening in the lamplight. It makes her shiver once more. She made that happen? 

"My eager little virgin," he whispers fondly as he kisses her, letting her taste herself off his lips, off his tongue. 

She smiles in disbelief. "I feel decidedly less virginal." 

"So I see." He starts stroking her with his hand again, with a sly glint in his eyes. "Do you think you could take two? It'd be only merciful, considering what you'll have to take tomorrow night." 

She ruts against his hand and tastes his mouth again, cupping the back of his head and pulling him close with her legs. "You owe me two _at least_ \--oh, God--"

"That's two. My, my, you are wet." He pulls both fingers out and sucks on them, smacking his lips with exaggerated delight. "I could do this forever," he purrs and eases them back inside her, deeper this time, twisting them inside her, spreading her with his other hand's thumb, leaning down to adore her once again. "Such a sweet little cunny. And all mine to taste." He gives her long licks, his eyes never leaving hers, his dirty words and rough fingers making her writhe as they sear her with pleasure. "All mine to train," he drawls, rubbing that sweet spot he has just discovered until her hips lift off the bed to follow his teasing fingertips, "all mine to _fuck._ " He curls his fingers so hard she stops breathing, hooking them rhythmically inside her until the white-hot waves of orgasm begin to ripple through her again and she screams, howls his name. He pins her to the bed with his mouth as the waves crash through her and she screams again, wetting his face, thrusting against his mouth as his fingers thrust into her, over and over. There's nothing in this world apart from his fingers and his mouth and his eyes, and the red sheets, red sheets that seem to spread out forever, engulfing her in a sea of red, and she floats, floats. 

Jaffar pulls the covers over them both, layers upon layers of warmth, of silks, of velvets. He gathers her in the nest of his arms, her head cradled against his chest, and she falls asleep against his heartbeat.

***

On the seventh night, he takes her to his study. As he turns all the keys on the complex series of locks and the door clicks open, he hesitates and takes her hand. "Before, I have not allowed another living soul in this space." He searches her eyes, then casts his lashes down, his hand lingering on the lock. Stories of the great Jaffar and his magic are whispered not just all over Persia but all of the known world, related by traders over campfires from the Volga to al-Andalus. His magic has made him what he is, has enabled him to stand head and shoulders above other men. To give even a small fraction of its secrets away could mean his downfall, the loss of an empire. If she gave something away by accident, let slip something she'd seen in a palace full of eavesdroppers and spies, it could destroy him. She's not sure if she wants to take that risk.

"You don't have to show it to me, Jaffar. If you choose to keep it a secret, it's--"

He opens his eyes and laces his fingers with hers, squeezing her hand. "I owe it to you." He kisses her temple, holds her tight against his chest. "The day we wed, I promised everything that was mine would be yours also. And I meant it." 

He opens the door. 

At first, she sees very little, until he lights the lamps lining the walls. The room is smaller than she thought it would be--she had imagined the high vaults of fairy stories, but the room is no bigger than a caravanserai bedroom. And it looks more or less like the study of an ordinary scholar. It's covered wall to wall with shelves, creaking with books and scrolls. In the corner stands a clockwork crane, ticking away minutes with its brass beak. Bottles clatter on one of the shelves as she walks past and she jumps back, even though she could swear she wasn't close enough to touch them.

"Ah." He reaches out to steady the bottles with his hands. "Minor djinn. I wouldn't touch them if I were you. Quite a mischievous lot." He takes a step back from the shelf, still holding his hands out, as if to make sure the bottles stay put. He gives them a stern glare, then turns to her, grinning. "Some of them haven't seen a woman in over a thousand years, let alone a pretty one. It's understandable they would get a little... overexcited."

She steps well away from the bottles. "I'm not sure if I'd ever care to meet them."

He rubs her shoulder. "You won't, I promise." He looks a little apologetic. "I hope you weren't expecting to see great feats of magic tonight."

"I can't imagine what you're conserving your energy for," she teases, glancing at him from underneath her lashes. 

He quirks his eyebrow. "I do have this one demoness I've been wrestling with for days." 

"And she exhausts your vitality, does she?" She lays her hand on his chest and presses against him.

He shakes his head and tuts. "She's absolutely insatiable." He offers her a brief kiss. "Let me show you some _real_ magic." He turns to one of the shelves and takes out a shining leather folder. "Now, I want you to look at this. I have something in here that will change the course of history. Not only that of Persia, but the entire world." He opens the folder and takes out several thin, white sheets. "Feel these."

She pinches the sheets between her finger and thumb. They're like papyrus, but much smoother, thinner, yet stronger. "What is this?"

"It's a replacement for papyrus. We obtained the secret of it from Chinese prisoners some years ago. With this, we can manufacture more books than ever, faster than ever before, and create larger volumes." His eyes are glowing with excitement. "I've ordered the construction of a mill for these sheets in Baghdad, and hired translators to write down all the knowledge of the Greeks, the Indians and other nations so that we may compile it all in our libraries. Imagine it. The largest libraries of the world, surpassing even those of Alexandria, available to all seekers in our Baghdad. Shelves full of knowledge from all corners of the world. For knowledge is the greatest power, the greatest magic, the greatest shaper of human history." He strokes the sheets, then places them carefully inside the folder again, clasping it to his chest. " _This,_ this simple material will usher in a new golden age."

It's difficult for her to imagine, because of the scope of it all, the implications of it all--information for everyone, so easily attainable, could change the face of the world through the advancements in science alone. Maybe even in their lifetime. But she's thrilled at the idea, of rows upon rows of books, of opening compilations of tales from distant lands, of learning the latest discoveries of scientists, following the debates of the philosophers. When she was little, her tutors were frustrated at the rate with which she devoured books, because they were scarce and precious things and many of them were hardly suited for noble ladies. Little did they know of how she would sneak into the palace library and steal books to read at night. And how, when she was older, the entire harem would squirm in delight whenever someone managed to smuggle in the latest volume of dirty verse.

"What were you thinking of copying first on the new material? The Holy Book?" 

He places the folder back on the shelf. "We were thinking of Aristotle. And then a famous poet convinced me we should aim for something that will sell, enough to help get the mill started. So it's likely it'll be a volume of poetry."

She knows exactly who the most famous poet of Baghdad is, and rolls her eyes. "Please don't tell me it's--"

"Yes." He nods. "Abu Nuwas." Both of them burst out into laughter.

"I knew it." She takes his hand. "So this fantastic new invention will be first used to publish poems delighting in wine, witty insults and the buttocks of pretty young boys."

He nods, sliding his hands to her hips. "There are some witty verses dedicated to the backsides of beautiful girls as well. Maybe I should ask him to compose you an ode." 

"I'd rather save my backside for you."

"Careful what you wish for, young lady. You're giving me _ideas_." He squeezes her buttocks possessively and pulls her in for a kiss. "I think it's about time we moved our backsides to the bedroom, don't you?"

***

They're both wearing many layers again, but this time, taking them off is a mutual joy. Even the way Jaffar slides her veil off her hair, fondling her curls and her shoulders is enough to make her nipples harden and her legs part, make her lean into his touch, nuzzling his hands. He turns the slide of fabric into a caress, kissing at each piece of revealed skin as he strips her, until her clothes pool at her feet. She offers him the same pleasure in turn, letting her hands and her lips caress and adore every part of him as she divests him of turban and robes. His shoulders stiffen as she brings her lips to the scars on his back, but he doesn't say anything, only breathes quietly and clasps her hand to his waist as she kisses each and every mark from shoulder to hip. Finally naked, he turns around in her arms and kisses her for a long while, sighing happily into her mouth. When he pulls back, his eyes are glistening, their corners crinkled with joy. "Come to bed." 

He lifts her up by the buttocks and she yelps, then quickly wraps her legs around his waist in order not to fall off. Thankfully, the bed is only a few steps away and he manages to carry her to it, both of them falling onto the pillows and tussling, laughing between kisses. She lies on top of him, enjoying the feel and warmth of his brown body, her breasts pressed against his chest, his long fingers tracing calligraphies on her back.

"I think my queen should finally take what's hers."

She wriggles on top of him. "No hesitations, no last minute delays?"

"No. Just some last minute preparation." He picks up a bottle from the bedside table, then moves up on the bed so that he's sitting up, leaning back against a pile of cushions. He pours oil into his palm and starts massaging it onto his half-hard cock, onto his sack, displaying himself for her. He watches her for a long while, full of yearning, running his eyes all over her body, making love to her with his gaze. _See how much I want you,_ he seems to be saying with his entire body, filled with so much hope and want it makes her ache.

She moves closer, kneeling between his legs, feasting her eyes on his cock, admiring its flush, its gleaming length. _Oh._ Despite her fear of pain, she clenches in anticipation and has to touch herself, her lips hovering inches from him. That's what she will take tonight, pain or no pain. She's waited long enough. Her mouth waters and she wants to taste his cock again, to have it stretch her lips, choke her, fill her mouth with sperm. But she bites her lip and refrains from touching him, looking up at him instead.

"You're beautiful." She locks her eyes with his and _blows_.

His mouth falls open with a soft, pained groan. "Oh." He lets go of his cock, smearing the sheets with his fists instead, his chest heaving with short, fast breaths. "And you're _impossible_. Come sit in my lap."

"Have you got something for me?" she teases, straddling him, wrapping her arms around his neck. 

He crushes her against his chest, digging his fingers deep into her back, sliding his cock between her buttocks. "This," he growls in her ear. He tilts her head back by the hair and nips at her neck. "All for you." 

She wrenches her head free and kisses him so hard their teeth click. Swaying her hips, she rocks herself on his cock feverishly, wet and slick and ready. Oh, she's ready. "Tell me, Jaffar," she croons, between kisses. "Tell me what you want." 

He licks her mouth. "I want to _fuck you_."

She moans, lifting her hips, her fingers slipping on his cock as she moves into place. "Ask nicely."

Jaffar sinks both of his hands into her hair and stares into her eyes, his mouth quivering. "Please."

She takes a deep breath and starts to lower herself down. At first, she's clenching so much from the pressure it seems impossible to take even the head in. "I'm sorry." She crouches down, trying to rock herself onto his cock, trying to force herself to open. 

"Shh." He kisses her softly, his brow furrowed with concern. "We are not in a hurry." He slides his hands to her buttocks, cupping them, following the movements of her hips. "Lean forwards." 

Her forehead pressed against his shoulder, she tries again. She wants him so much, and the stretch isn't entirely unpleasant. In fact, it feels wonderful, and not particularly painful. She loves the pressure, the friction, but even with the oil and her own arousal, she seems too tight to take it. Stubbornly, she stays there, pushing down with her hips, groaning with frustration.

"Let me." He licks his thumb and reaches down to stroke her clitoris, kissing her again. "It's all right. Does it hurt too much?"

She shakes her head. "No." She rocks between his thumb and his cock, the wonderful double pressure easing her frustration somewhat. He dips his thumb into her folds to gather more moisture, and turns his touch softer, more teasing, barely there. He's never touched her this softly before, and it makes her shiver all over--first, his touch is there, then it's gone, and not being able to anticipate it makes the eventual soft brushes feel like little shocks, making her hips curl back and forth in pleasure.

Again, he flicks his thumb and she makes a whimpering sound through her nose, clenching around the head of his cock as it slips in a little deeper, making her mouth fall wide open. "Oh--"

He grins, rather pleased with himself. "Better?" 

"Yes. Oh--" She lifts herself up, then pushes down again, her breath catching in her throat in little hitches, her hair falling over his chest. "God--" She presses her hand over his thumb, their fingers slipping with her wetness, the oil and she rubs hard, breathing out a moan and he's in. In. Past the tightest part, pressing and stretching her deep inside, and she shudders. He's in. Her body wants to reject the sudden invasion, her pelvic muscles reflexively pushing out, but she fights them, shuddering again as she stays in place, her thighs cramping with the effort.

He strokes her waist, gazing up at her, adoring. "Good girl." He runs his wet thumb over her lower lip and smiles, his eyes soft with tenderness. His voice is quiet, almost a whisper. "You feel wonderful." 

She laughs and blinks away tears, spreading her hands over his chest. "So do you, my king." She closes her eyes and lets her head loll back, enjoying every sensation. She sits there and breathes, focuses on the weight and the pressure of him inside of her, the littlest ripples of pleasure as she shifts her weight, balances on his hips. 

He sighs in contentment underneath her, reaching out to hold her breasts, to squeeze them. "I should put jewels on you," he murmurs, moving his thumbs over her nipples. "Little clasps on these, and a chain between them." He gives her little pinches, all over her breasts, laughing softly as she clenches around him in response. "With golden coins on, so they would make music as you ride me; heavy, pulling on you so sweetly. Would you like that?" He pinches harder, twisting her nipples, the pleasure making her arch her back and roll her hips, her long groan answer enough for him.

"Oh, yes. I think you would." He moves his hands down to her buttocks, spreading them, pushing his own hips up for the first time, just a little. "Ride me."

Her head lolls forwards and she feels dizzy, her vision blurring and then finally focusing on Jaffar's eyes, his pupils so wide with arousal they've turned a dark blue. "Ride me," he repeats, rolling his hips as much as he can under her weight, and oh, it feels amazing. Carefully, she leans forwards, sliding a little off his cock, then back again, keening as she sinks back onto it, back onto his greedy hands. "Oh, God." She repeats the motion, again, the friction inside her body unbearable now, like an itch she needs to scratch, and she can't stop moving. Now she's wet enough to slide more easily on and off him, so she rocks her hips in a circular motion, and now she knows the origin of all the court women's dances. This, this is where it all comes from, the muscle locks, the belly ripples, the deep dip and slide of the hips. She's been let in on a secret, a grown women's secret, and delights as Jaffar stretches underneath her, his mouth open, his eyes closed in ecstasy. She wonders how often he must've dreamt of this, how many times he's masturbated himself to sleep thinking of this, imagining his hand her flesh. "I hope I live up to your expectations." 

He pulls her down, tight against his body and moves inside her, luxuriating in her, whispering softly against her cheek. "My queen, all the houris of Paradise wish they could live up to _you._ "

She rocks back onto him, her skin slippery with sweat, sighing against his ear. "Strange. I could have sworn this was what Paradise felt like." 

He continues to rock into her, kissing her cheek. "It doesn't hurt?"

"No." She rolls her hips again, then lifts them until he nearly slips out of her. Then she pushes back with a groan, her thighs straining, trying to get him as deep inside her as possible. And yet it's not deep enough. "I want more." 

He thrusts his hips up, grinning wickedly as she yelps in surprise. "Is that so?"

She bites her lip. "Yes. Please." 

He rolls her onto her back, onto the pile of cushions. "Lift up your hips." She wonders how many times he's done this before as he skillfully arranges her into position, her back and shoulders balanced on cushions and her hips flat on the bed. He lifts her legs, bending her in half and leaning over her.

"Comfortable?" He kisses her knee. She's a little squashed, but nods.

"Good." He kisses down her thigh. "Now, if you'll forgive me, I'm just going to have to be a little selfish." Before she can answer, he dives down and laps at her, licking up the wetness that has spread all the way to her thighs and her buttocks. She's so sensitive now, twitching at his every touch, but the worst part of it is that she can't move, being pinned down by the force of his hands. She pants in broken gasps underneath the assault of his mouth as he caresses her swollen mound with his tongue, with his lips, nipping at her folds with his teeth. He chuckles into her, the rasp of his moustache scratching her raw, and she has to take it, clenching onto his tongue, clawing at his arms. 

"Stop it." She cannot breathe. "Please, Jaffar. You're merciless."

"That's what they say. 'God is merciful, Jaffar less so.'" He smiles, his lips gleaming, and he pushes two fingers inside of her, crooning at her as he takes her with his hand. "So slick and open for me. What do you think, should I be merciful?" He hooks his fingers inside her and she wails openly, his fingertips sending ripples of unbearable pleasure through her. He rests his lips on the top of her slit, rubbing over the hood of her clitoris. "No?" 

"Please, Jaffar. Mercy."

He twists his fingers and gives her a lazy lick. "Tell me what you want."

"I-"

"Yes?" he laps at her some more, looking up at her, rutting his own hips against the bed, rutting the way he would when inside her. The very sight of him, and the feel of his fingers nearly push her over the edge.

"Fuck me." 

She clenches around his fingers and he can tell she's close, so he withdraws and kneels between her legs. Proudly, he displays the strings of her fluids on his fingertips, then slicks his cock with them, hissing with delight. "It will be my pleasure."

The bed creaks as he leans over her, lifts her legs onto his shoulders and rocks himself inside of her. His eyes staring into hers, he moves deep inside of her, gently, slowly, deeper than ever before. She shivers all over, her mouth open, unable to stop her sides and her stomach from spasming, unable to breathe right as she's stretched wide inside, his weight heavy upon her. 

He lifts a hand to caress her face, but it falls back on the bed as he balances, and the noise he makes is so broken, so small. He presses his forehead against hers, his lashes wet against his cheeks; he but remains there, buried inside of her, shivering himself. 

"I love you," he whispers.

So full of him, so full of love for him, she clasps his cheeks and kisses his eyelids tenderly. "And I love you, my Jaffar. Show me what you dreamt of."

He lets out a little laugh, pulls back and then pushes as deep as he can, purring. "Very well. But you've been warned." 

That only excites her all the more, and she bites her lip. "Go on."

"Well. First, I would always drive you mad with lust with my mouth and my fingers, but we've done that," he smirks. "Then I would do this. Slowly." And he begins a slow rut, long strokes in and out of her, torturously slow. She couldn't do anything like this on top of him, not at that angle, and her mouth falls open as his cock moves inside of her, touching all the places she needed to have touched, sliding in and out and stretching her, making her whimper with loss every time he withdraws. He changes the angle of his hips a little and there, oh, there, the head of his cock hits the spot his fingers did last night, and she's so loud she's ashamed, ashamed of shouting so close to his face, but it feels too good. 

"I'm sorry," she pants. "I'm sorry." 

"Don't be sorry." He rolls his hips in a circular motion, deep inside her, making her moan loudly yet again. "You see, that's what I was wondering about," he laughs between strokes, speeding up, spreading her legs wider. "Whether I could make you _scream._ " He rams in, one hard stroke after another, panting frantically in her face. "Touch yourself." 

She manages to squeeze her hand between them, but he doesn't have to ask her to scream. Every one of his thrusts is so hard it makes her cry out, even more so as he speeds up even further, his hips slamming hard into her rubbing hand, his balls slapping against her with wet noises. 

He drags his teeth against her neck, rasping in her ear. "Every night, I would dream of my little princess, coming undone underneath me. Are you going to do that for me?" 

Her only answer is an even louder cry, her voice hoarse now as she shakes underneath his thrusts, stretched so wide she can't even clench around him, his hips dictating the pace at which the ripples of orgasm spread through her. The heat spreads out so deep from her pelvis this time, his entire weight slamming into her again and again, sending shockwaves all throughout her body. Her eyes roll back in her head and her limbs twist on the bed, overcome as pleasure, as Jaffar washes over her. He devours the screams from her mouth, greedily, his thrusts shorter, faster now as he lets go himself, rolling into her, feeding her with his own moans as he spends himself inside her. He lifts her hips off the bed, burying himself to the hilt, his head thrown back, his stomach quivering, his arms trembling as he comes. 

He stays like that for a while and she observes him, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his breathing slowly evens. When he finally looks down at her again, it's as if he's drunk, his eyes glazed with joy, his hair falling in strands over his face. He smiles with the delight of a boy, not the ruler of an empire. 

"Come here." Gently, he gathers her into his arms so that she is sitting in his lap, he still half-hard inside her. "You've gone quiet." He nuzzles her cheek. "Did I hurt you?" 

"Only my throat." She leans her head on his shoulder, sighing happily. "Can we stay like this?" 

"I wish we could. I should conjure a bubble around this room to make time stand still outside," he murmurs wistfully. "But then I wouldn't have enough energy left to make love to you." 

She pulls back to kiss him. "I suppose I'm going to have to be content with the lovemaking. At least I shall now have you beside me every night."

He kisses her hand. "You shall." He nods towards the low table on the floor. "Care for a drink? Wine mixed with honey should help soothe your throat."

She doesn't want to let go of him, but he kisses her and tells her he'll be right back. He warms a cup of wine by a brazier, then dissolves a large spoonful of honey into it, perhaps remembering how bitter she had found it before. He embraces her from behind and offers the cup to her lips. "Here." 

Together, they sit and share the warmth and sweetness of the wine and each other's bodies, passing the cup back and forth, sharing kisses between sips.

He caresses her throat. "Feeling better?"

She sets the cup down and nuzzles his face. "Much better. Although there's something altogether sweeter I crave."

He brushes her lips with his. "And what might that be?" 

"Something you've cruelly deprived my mouth of tonight." She turns around in his arms and presses him to the bed. "Lie down, my love, and I shall show you." 

He's feasted on her body tonight, but now it's her turn to feast. Smiling mischievously, she scoops the dregs of honey from the bottom of the cup and draws a wide stripe with them over his chest, over his nipples, down to his navel. His eyes widen and his belly dips as she caresses him with honeyed fingers, but before he can say anything, she catches his mouth with hers, sucking his tongue, making him arch upon the bed. He whimpers into her mouth as she sucks harder, then pulls back from the kiss, astonished. 

"Where did you learn that?"

"I improvised." 

He cups the back of her head. "Do it again." 

Gently, she resumes the kiss, then captures his tongue once again and sucks, pressing it lightly with her teeth this time. He cries out into her mouth, his hips lifting off the bed, his cock twitching and brushing over her fingers. "God," he gasps as he pulls back. "Whatever next?" 

She swells with satisfaction, heady from wine and the power of her own mouth and hands. "Well. This is what I had in mind." She spreads her tongue wide and laps at the stripe she drew over his chest, laving and sucking the taste of honey, wine and sweat from his skin. She relishes his body, all hers now, planting soft kisses over his shoulders, dragging her lips along the veins of his arms. She studies his responses to different caresses: whether a bite on his side works better than a soft kiss, where to worship him with long licks so that his fingers will curl in her hair. The hollows of his hips seem particularly sensitive, and she brushes her lips against them, barely touching, making his hips arch under her touch. His cock is full and flushed, his balls drawn high, but she refuses to touch them with her hands and her mouth, only allows them the brushes of her hair, breasts and neck as she continues to kiss her way down his body.

He rocks into her kisses, his eyes half-closed, enjoying the sweet torture. "I should never have invoked Ishtar. The ancients were right; she is a cruel mistress."

She licks the last drops of honey from just above his navel. "I should do this every night if it raises me so much in your estimation," she smiles and licks her lips. "From demoness to houri to goddess in one night." She wraps her hand around his cock and strokes it lightly, her hand barely there. 

He sighs and spreads his legs. "Oh, but you're all three rolled into one." His breathing quickens. "Please, I pray you, don't stop."

She crouches between his legs, whispering tenderly. "I won't." She clasps his cock with both hands, her palms flat against it, stroking slowly up and down, her thumbs rubbing the underside. Another improvisation, and it seems to be working, going by the depths of his sighs. Drops of moisture gather at the head of his cock again, and she lets her fingers slip in them as she caresses him, making him wet and shining. She takes her time, moving her hands as slowly as possible, and he lets her. His entire body grows heavy, his breathing slows down and he seems weighed to the bed with pleasure, sinking into a trance woven by her touch. She wants to taste him, her mouth watering at his scent, but hesitates to disturb something so beautiful. Thus, she continues for long moments, keeping up the slowest of rhythms, watching him, entranced by his beauty in turn. 

It's only when he opens his eyes and gazes upon her with so much devotion, looking like his heart is about to break, that she reaches out and clasps his hand. "Will you let me taste you?"

He turns his head on the pillow, still mesmerised. "Please." He squeezes her hand. "Please grant me that." It's a plea to a mortal woman, but recited with the softness of his prayers to the goddess.

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure." She kisses the head of his cock, gently, reverently. "Beloved." She opens her mouth and moans herself at his taste, denied to her all night. She means to go slow, but finds it impossible to fight her need, her craving: she's drunk on the pleasures she has only just discovered. The way he fits into her mouth perfectly, the sounds he makes when she closes her lips around him and hums softly; it's more intoxicating than the wine. She remembers the way he had rolled his hips when he had been inside of her, so she rolls her head a little, from side to side. She's rewarded with a soft "oh" from him, so she repeats the motion, making her mouth loose and wet, massaging his length with her tongue. 

His hand clutches at the sheets, then at her arm. "Please. Please stop."

Reluctantly, she withdraws. "But I've only just started." She gives his cock another kiss. 

He lifts himself up and pulls her into his arms, embracing her from behind. "The trouble with your mouth, delicious as it is," he murmurs against her ear, "is that you'd make me finish all too soon. And I'm not finished yet." He rubs himself against her, spooning her against himself, his cock pressed between her buttocks. "When it's this I'd rather take." 

For a moment, she tenses in his arms, thinking he means sodomy. She gasps as he slips his cock between her legs. He laughs, a soft rumble vibrating in his chest, against her back. And then, in one long, slow thrust, he slides himself inside her cunny, so that she's writhing and twisting in his arms, her no-longer-virgin flesh clenching around his length. "Did you think I'd take you like a boy?" he rasps as he begins to move inside her, panting against her back. "Now, _there's_ a dangerous idea. I've never taken a girl like a boy before, but I might just make an exception in your case." He dips his fingers into her slit, finding her clitoris, swollen, capturing it between his fingers. "Are you thinking of it?"

She moans into the pillows, pushing back into his hands. She doesn't know what she thinks; vague images flash through her mind, but she cannot focus. Not with the amazing way he slides in and out of her, his teasing fingers making her press against him, urging her to move upon his cock faster. "No," she grinds her face into the brocade, "I don't know."

He laughs and pushes her face down on the bed. "Liar," he teases, fondly. "Just like in my study, you thought of it, and you _liked_ it." He lies on top of her with all his weight, pushing her legs apart, driving so deep inside of her she thinks she will split in two. 

"Oh--" 

"Yes," he purrs and pins her to the bed, moving effortlessly inside her. "But right now, I prefer this." He mouths her shoulder and speeds up, his hips slapping against her buttocks. "Yes," he croons, "that is a little rougher. Thought you'd like it. Shall I continue?"

"Yes. Oh, God." She slips her hands underneath herself and rides them as he takes her, pounds into her so hard the bed creaks. He's not being rough just to pleasure himself, she knows this; he wants to see how much she can take, whether he can drive her out of her mind. She's so swollen and tender now every thrust makes her head spin, thinking she will pass out if he goes on for a second longer, and she doesn't even know where orgasm begins and ends. She cannot control it, so she lets go, gives herself completely into his hands, lets herself be taken, carried by the flow and ebb of ecstasy. There is only Jaffar, heavy and hot over her, filling her so perfectly, so fully, his arms around her and his voice in her ear. Even between the hardest, cruellest of strokes, he murmurs a constant "I love you," writes it upon her waist with his fingers, upon her back with his teeth, drives it into her with the force of his hips.

"Let me see your face," she breathes, turning around underneath him. She captures him in a kiss and he rocks inside of her again, his mouth on her mouth, moving in her and through her. Oh, he is hers, beautiful and hers. "I love you, too," she whispers, gazing into his eyes and caressing his face, her thumbs on his high cheekbones, his flushed lips. 

His head falls onto her shoulder and he sobs, pushing so deep inside her it's as if he wants to disappear inside her, be consumed by her. He's curled up around her, trembling, every muscle tense as he holds himself against her body, inside her body. It's as if he is about to fall to pieces and only she can hold him together. 

She presses a hand to his heart, hushes him, soothes him. "Jaffar." 

He looks at her, his eyes feverish, lost.

She wraps her arms around his neck and smiles. "I want you to take my mouth."

Jaffar _keens_ , shivering inside her. He staggers as she slips from underneath him and leaves him kneeling on the bed, his wet cock slapping against his stomach. "Hurry," he pleads. 

She answers him with her mouth, crouching down in front of him, lapping and sucking her own sweet slickness off his cock. She makes a circle with her fingers and holds the root firmly, taking him into her mouth as deep as she can, and nothing in this world could feel as perfect. She's so full, tears prickling in her eyes, Jaffar rocking into her mouth, her breath coming in short gasps between his thrusts, her breathing completely controlled by his movements. He notices this and hesitates, but that's the last thing she wants. She wants to be full of him, hungers for him so much it shakes her to the bone. She pulls off for a second to catch her breath, panting up at him, massaging his cock with her hand. 

"Don't hold back," she pleads. "Take what's yours." 

When she slides him into her mouth again, he grabs her hair and _snarls_ , thrusting with his hips hard enough to bruise, hurting her throat because she lets him, because she wants him to, and she feels herself dripping down to her thighs, burning with arousal at his force. Her sobs are choked out by his thrusts, her nose buried in the short hair of his groin and she thinks she could die here, happy, full of Jaffar and nothing else would matter. Only Jaffar. Spit drips down her chin, wetting his balls as he cries out one last time and comes inside her mouth. Even if she gags and chokes, she holds it, holds it until she has captured every spurt, swallowed them all, sucked him dry, consumed him. Holding him in her mouth, she turns her eyes upwards and he is a mess, a beautiful mess. He's covered in sweat, his hair damp against his cheeks and neck, shaking from released tension, fatigued from lust. His eyes are wide with wonder as he strokes her hair from her face, gently easing her off him, lifting her to her knees to better embrace her. 

He holds her, their bodies plastered together with sweat, and he opens his mouth to say something, but finds himself at a loss for words. He nuzzles her face, then tries again. 

"My love, I pray you won't take my silence for an insult. What am I to say to a woman who has taken me so utterly, body and soul, that she has deprived me of words, too?"

Her chest aches from love, from a happiness her body seems too small to contain. "No words are needed." She brushes his lips with hers and pulls him down to lie in her arms.

***

Together, they rest for long moments, moments stretching into hours as the moon climbs higher in the sky. One by one, the lamps go out, but neither of them minds. They can see each other well enough in the moonlight, his arm around her waist, his head pillowed on her chest. She caresses his arm and presses a kiss to his hair, whispering softly. 

"Will you now believe this is real?"

He laces his fingers with hers. His voice is gentle and full of wistful delight; relief, even. "Yes."

She wonders what has made him so wary of trusting anyone, but knows from experience that the higher a man's position in the court, the more paranoid the man will be. He's lived his life amongst court intrigues and backstabbers, and it's a world neither of them will ever be able to escape if they are to rule it. He has to rule with the lash and the sword, yet it still causes her pain to see that fragility inside of him.

"You may not trust those around you, you may have good reasons to doubt the loyalty of your subjects, but I beg of you, Jaffar, never distrust me. Never doubt my love." 

He leans over her, considering her for a long while. Even in the moonlight, she can see pain flashing in his eyes, love warring with fear. He lifts her hand to his heart, struggling to compose himself. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, solemn.

"I swear upon my life that you have my trust, my queen. Should I ever break yours, may God strike me down."

She smooths out a kohl-streaked tear from his cheek, her heart aching with love, and she is as light as a feather. 

"Come, seal this promise with a kiss."

Jaffar leans down to kiss her, his shadow covering her like wings.

***

END

***

**Author's Note:**

> Extensive annotations (historical, etc.) for this series and my other medieval Persian fics can be found [here.](http://snowgrouse.livejournal.com/2165564.html)
> 
> Freely rebloggable Tumblr promo post [here.](http://aikainkauna.tumblr.com/post/132587260948/fic-of-roses-unfurling-jaffarprincess-nc-17)


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